


Invitation

by antheiasilva



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst and Humor, Dooku is the Emily Gilmore of the Star Wars universe, Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, Gen, Obi-Wan will need a hug, Qui-Gon is done with this shit, lineage feels!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2019-09-30 09:43:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17221559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antheiasilva/pseuds/antheiasilva
Summary: Dooku traps Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan in a dinner invitation when Obi-Wan meets his grandmaster for the first time.Qui-Gon fumes and loses teacups.-“Ah, my young apprentice, there you are,” the man boomed in a slick and affectionate tone, that might have held just the faintest undercurrent of disapproval.Young apprentice? Who? It took Obi-Wan a moment to figure out that the man was talking to Qui-Gon.Oh.Sothiswas Master Dooku.





	1. Chapter 1

Qui-Gon was fidgeting. 

Obi-Wan always found it unnerving when his calm and even-tempered master was off kilter enough that he would tap his fingers or chew the end of a stylus. He was doing both now as Obi-Wan was trying to study for his astrometrics final. He sighed. He couldn’t decide what was more frustrating, the rapping sound of Qui-Gon’s fingers against the armrest of his reading chair, the squeaking of the stylus, or the ripple of anxiety flowing into the force.

“Master?” he called from his spot on the couch.

Qui-Gon looked up. “Hmm?”

“Something bothering you?”

“Why would you say that, Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan mimed tapping on the arm of the couch.

“Ah. Sorry. I hadn’t realized.” A faint flush appeared behind his beard. “Am I distracting you?”

“Well, a bit. But that’s not the point. I can feel your anxiety from here.”

The flush deepened. “Sorry Obi-Wan,” his master said, rising from the chair and crossing the room. “I’ll leave you to it. “

“Master? Wait,” Obi-Wan protested, half rising from the couch. “No. I just meant… I wanted to ask…” But Qui-Gon had already disappeared into his room by the time he finished his sentence. “…what’s wrong,” he whispered to the empty living room.

 

***

 

The fidgeting continued and turned into restlessness. At dinner, a few days later, Qui-Gon seemed so distracted that Obi-Wan decided to chance a test.

“You know I think the bantha piss really brings out the flavour of the tang root.”

“Hmm. Yes, it’s very good Obi-Wan. Thank you for cooking,” Qui-Gon, said more to his bowl than to Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan inhaled sharply and shook his head, but let the matter rest. He made a mental note to check in with Bant. Maybe Tahl had mentioned something.

 

***

 

Even more unsettling was when Qui-Gon started forgetting things, like turning off the water, or taking the kettle off the stove.  He also had a habit of leaving items in odd places around the apartment: half-cooled cups of tea, spoons still in them, on shelves and windowsills, or in the ‘fresher. Four days, one burned kettle, an overflowed bathtub, three cups of abandoned tea, and a hairbrush in a planter later, Obi-Wan was starting to reach the end of his patience with Qui-Gon’s avoidance. But he had one more final to write and found that it was easier to hole up in the archives than weather Qui-Gon’s nerves and silence. His master was a private man, he knew that, and he wanted to be respectful: he had already rebuffed Obi-Wan’s attempts at inquiry and was shielding more than usual. Even their training bond had been quieter the past week or so. Still, he expected his master would tell him at some point, or it would fade in time.

He knew something was really wrong when he found Qui-Gon’s datapad in the refrigerator a few days later. 

He gave an exasperated sigh as he retrieved the lost object. He was starting to worry. Qui-Gon hadn’t been this distracted or anxious since…… well, he couldn’t remember, but it had been at least a year. Bant hadn’t heard anything from Tahl - either about Qui-Gon or anything temple-wide, like Council business. Besides, Qui-Gon was often angry and hyper-focused when it came to temple politics. Maybe he was just going stir-crazy being grounded on Coruscant. It had been weeks since they’d been offworld, thanks to Obi-Wan’s exams. He probably just needed a good distraction. 

“Qui-Gon?” he called, not-quite slamming the fridge door shut. He rarely called his master solely by his first name, even though Qui-Gon had given him permission years ago. Maybe this would get his attention.

Qui-Gon emerged from his bedroom, holding an old datapad. He blinked at Obi-Wan, taking in the object in his hand.

“Oh, you found it,” he said, with a hint of a relief.

“Yes, master. I found it. I'm surprised you were aware you had lost it.” It took all of Obi-Wan’s jedi training not to arch his eyebrow.

Qui-Gon didn’t react. “Where was it?”

Obi-Wan fixed his errant master in stern gaze. “Beside the muja juice.”

“Oh.” Qui-Gon sounded somewhat embarrassed. 

“Yes.”

Qui-Gon took a deep breath and rubbed the back of his neck absently as he crossed the room. “Thank you Obi-Wan. I, uh….” He trailed off and held out his hand for datapad.

Instead of passing it to Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan inhaled and squared his shoulders. He levelled his gaze at Qui-Gon and waited for him to meet his eyes.

“Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon asked, giving him a quizzical look.

“No.” 

Qui-Gon looked startled, jerking his head and shoulders back a fraction and blinking wide-eyed at his apprentice.

“I beg your pardon, Obi-Wan?” He said, in what Obi-Wan thought of as Qui-Gon’s ‘Master of the Order’ tone. 

“Not until you tell me what’s going on. The past week, you’ve been as antsy as a nerf in a rancor nest,” Obi-Wan declared, jaw set and blue eyes determined. It was high time they talked about this. 

“I hardly think it’s been as bad as that,” he said, managing to sound both dismissive and defensive.

This time Obi-Wan did arch his eyebrow at his stubborn master. 

“We can talk about it now, or after a sparring match. It’s your choice.”

Qui-Gon stared at him for a moment before his face softened. He sighed, nodding, and dropped his hand onto Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

“Alright, you win, Obi-Wan,” he said, with a grateful smile. “Let’s see if there’s a salle free.”

 

***

 

It was approaching dinner hour, so the corridors were busy with jedi and initiates in transit between training rooms and quarters. One of the padawan duels was running over time, but otherwise they had their pick of rooms. As they rounded the corner of the hallway, Qui-Gon came to a skittering halt, and for a moment it looked as if he were going to try to duck back in the other direction. Obi-Wan could feel a muted spike of alarm through their training bond. A tall, silver haired man in dark robes was talking to another master outside the occupied salle. He turned just in time to notice them.

“Ah, my young apprentice, there you are,” the man boomed in a slick and affectionate tone, that might have held just the faintest undercurrent of disapproval.

Young apprentice? Who? It took Obi-Wan a moment to figure out that the man was talking to Qui-Gon. 

Oh. 

So _ this _ was Master Dooku. 

Obi-Wan took in the sight of his grandmaster with curiosity. He’d never met him and Qui-Gon rarely spoke of him. He was tall, at least as tall as Qui-Gon, and in his dark robes he cut an impressive and imposing figure. His silver hair and beard were neat and finely trimmed. On his belt hung a polished curved lightsaber handle. Even his boots were shiny. He dipped his head and uttered a courteous and charming farewell to his companion, judging by the man’s smile and laugh. Everything about him was elegant, poised and seemed to effortlessly command respect. Obi-Wan hated to admit it, but he found the man compelling. Even more compelling, however, was the question of how in the universe his wild-haired, scruffy, stained-tunics-and-worn-boots master, with his quiet smiles and roguish accent, had come through an apprenticeship with this man who looked and sounded looked as if he had stepped from holonovel. 

Beside him, Qui-Gon had stiffened and through their bond Obi-Wan could feel him bristling at being called ‘young apprentice.’

Dooku strode over to them and clapped Qui-Gon on the shoulder. 

“Hello Master,” Qui-Gon said, concealing his irritation beneath a tone that was neither cool nor warm.

“I thought you must be off-world or tied up in the Senate. You did receive my invitation to dinner? I sent it at least a ten-day ago.” He paused and looked at Qui-Gon, who stood there, face impassive. An awkward beat of silence passed before Dooku continued. “Perhaps something went awry with your comm, because I cannot imagine you neglecting to answer your old master when you clearly have time for an unscheduled saber match.” 

“Of course not, master,” Qui-Gon replied smoothly. “I’m afraid I didn’t see it. I’ll have Obi-Wan take a look at it.”

Obi-Wan narrowed his eyes. A ten-day ago. Hmmm. Could that be what had Qui-Gon so rattled? Surely not, because that would mean that Qui-Gon had just  _ lied to Dooku’s face.  _ No, there must be something up with his comm. Maybe the latest software update had scrambled something? He would have started running through possible problems and fixes in his head, when Dooku’s next words caught him off guard.

“Yes, Obi-Wan, your elusive apprentice. How is he doing? And more importantly, when do I get to meet him? It’s so unfortunate that he’s always been unable to attend our dinners.”

Wait?! Dinners? With Dooku? Qui-Gon had never even mentioned the invitations. Obi-Wan schooled his features into a neutral expression. It wouldn’t do to have his shock all over his face. 

The brief flicker of anger crossed Qui-Gon’s brows. “A terrible accident of scheduling, I know,” Qui-Gon replied, voice cooler now. “But you’re in luck.” He patted Obi-Wan’s shoulder with one hand and extended the other towards Dooku. “Obi-Wan, meet Yan Dooku, my former master. Master, this is Obi-Wan.”

“ _ Obi-Wan _ ,” Dooku crooned with exaggerated warmth, extending his hand. His eyes seemed to twinkle. “How lovely it is to finally meet you!” 

“Master Dooku,” Obi-Wan answered, clasping Dooku’s hand. Dooku’s hand was large and powerful, like Qui-Gon’s, but somehow silky, where his master’s were always rough with callouses or dry skin. Obi-Wan noticed the tiniest nod as Dooku looked him up and down. He smiled broadly, his teeth as bright and formal as the rest of him. It was a genial enough smile, and yet somehow it left Obi-Wan feeling like he’d spilled kaff down his shirt. 

“Goodness, look at you. All grown up. You must be a senior padawan by now.”

“I’m just finishing my exams, master.”

“Excellent. And how are those going?”

“Well enough, I think. I supposed we’ll find out soon.” He smiled and resisted the urge to squirm under his grandmaster’s intense gaze.

“You’re being modest, surely. I’ve heard some admirable reports from the saber master.”

Obi-Wan blushed despite himself. “Saber arts come easily to me, Master. Xenolinguistics is giving a bit of a run for my credits.”

“Well now, you’re going to need that just as much as saber arts if you’re going to be a diplomat like your master and grandmaster.” Dooku's tone was both fond and patronizing - which, to be fair, Obi-Wan supposed was his prerogative as a master addressing a padawan. 

“Of course, master. I’m working on it.”

“You let me know if you need any help with Mando’a. Qui-Gon always struggled with it, you know. It’s such an elegant and sophisticated language. His Shryiiwook, however, is quite passable.”

Obi-Wan blinked in surprise. Was that a  _ dig  _ at Qui-Gon? No, he must have misunderstood. Dooku was so  _ refined _ ; surely, it was beneath him to be so petty. Beside him Qui-Gon was a tightly wound knot of barbed wire in the Force, and getting tighter and spikier with each passing breath. Obi-Wan struggled to think of a response, and found himself at a loss, distracted by the image of Dooku correcting Qui-Gon’s Shryiiwook.

Dooku was staring at him, waiting.

“Uh, yes. Thank you, master. I, uh, don’t struggle with Mando’a. And my Shryiiwook should be ready in time for the exam.”

“And when is that, young Obi-Wan?”

“Tomorrow morning, master.”

“Tomorrow?” Dooku raised his eyebrows, and fixed Qui-Gon with a chiding look. “And how is saber practice going to help your padawan with Shryiiwook, Qui-Gon?” 

“Obi-Wan is quite prepared,” Qui-Gon said, his voice terse.

Dooku made a noise that was somewhere between a “hmm” and a sigh. Qui-Gon gritted his teeth. 

“Exercise helps me focus,” Obi-Wan chimed in, somewhat desperate to relieve the tension that was rapidly building.  “Master Qui-Gon was kind enough to oblige me.”

Dooku sighed louder. “Oblige. Indulge. Such a fine line, isn’t it Qui-Gon?”

“ _ Quite _ ,” his master responded, his intonation landing on the “t” with a snap and a hiss.

“Well,” Dooku said, turning to grace Obi-Wan with a smile that was the picture of benevolence and charm. “We certainly  _ must _ celebrate the end of your exams and your promotion to senior padawan.”

“Um. Thank you?” Obi-Wan couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.

“Excellent. We have lots of time to make up for, you and I. It  _ grieves _ me that this is our first meeting. I would dearly like to get to know my grand-padawan.” He sounded genuinely hurt and Obi-Wan felt a stab of irritation at his master. He hadn’t even  _ told  _ Obi-Wan that Dooku had invited him. Things were tense between the two of them, but shouldn’t Obi-Wan have had the chance to  _ meet _ his grandmaster and form his own opinion? 

Obi-Wan couldn’t help but smile back at Dooku. “I would like that too.” 

Beside him, Qui-Gon failed to hide his wince. If Dooku noticed, he ignored him, his attention focused on Obi-Wan.

“Wonderful!” he exclaimed, his smile beatific. “Next Primeday, you will come for dinner at my apartments, yes? I won’t take no for an answer!”

Three days from now, when he would have his exam results and his promotion would be official. Qui-Gon had promised to take him to see a holonovel and out for dinner Dex’s. Obi-Wan hesitated, stealing a glance at Qui-Gon. What should he say? He cherished his rare leisure time with his master, but he was intrigued at the prospect of getting to know his master’s master - if for no other reason than solving the mystery that was Qui-Gon’s reticence and obvious discomfort. He also didn’t know how to refuse without offending Dooku, which, given their short acquaintance, he found himself unwilling to risk. 

_ Master? _ He sent over their training bond.  _ A little help here? _

_ It’s  _ your  _ celebration, Obi-Wan. _ Qui-Gon sent back, with an odd combination of hurt and resignation.

Well, that settled it. Obi-Wan didn’t want to disappoint or hurt his master. Perhaps Dooku would be available another day. 

“That sounds great, Master Dooku, but -” 

“Perfect!” Dooku interrupted. “19:00 hours. Do be prompt.” He gave Qui-Gon a pointed look. 

Qui-Gon just sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yes, master.”

Dooku nodded and then raised an expectant eyebrow.

Qui-Gon muttered a curse under his breath, before affecting the fakest fake-nice voice that Obi-Wan had ever had the misfortune to hear uttered from his master’s lips. “Can we bring anything?”

“How kind of you to offer, padawan. But no, no. You are my guest.” He beamed at Qui-Gon, before turning to Obi-Wan, draping an arm across his shoulders and saying in a mock-whisper, “And, between you and me, I don’t believe I can survive your master’s taste in liquor another time.”

Obi-Wan snorted. Qui-Gon gave an exasperated sigh. 

“Yes, yes. Very funny, master. I take no responsibility for your delicate constitution,” Qui-Gon replied acidly.

Dooku’s glare was as scathing as it was brief, and Obi-Wan was left wondering if he’d imagined it. 

“Obi-Wan, my dear,” Dooku began, his voice as smooth as silk. He squeezed the young man’s shoulder, “I know this is a lot to ask, but I don’t suppose you could convince him to shave, or at least do  _ something _ about that hair?”

 

***

 

Later, after what had to be the shortest duel of his apprenticeship, Obi-Wan looked up at his master from where he’d landed in defeat on the training mats. He was almost certain he had his answer now, but he wanted to be sure, and Qui-Gon had slammed down his shields the second they had stepped into the practice room. A final question would settle any lingering doubts.

“There’s nothing wrong with your comm, is there, Master?” 

Qui-Gon just growled in response and stalked from the room. 

Right. It was going to be a long three days.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little interlude as our master-padawan duo prepares for dinner!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thanks a million to you READERS for all the comments and enthusiasm! I'm surprised and delighted! It's very inspiring!

Obi-Wan was being careful. Qui-Gon could see it in his every movement, every soft-spoken word, every teaspoon clink. His thoughtful padawan was quietly persistent at anticipating a need for tea, dinner, tidying, boots polishing, laundry, fussy datapads and even his presence or absence seemed designed to cater to Qui-Gon’s mood. 

He hated it. He hated the fact that Obi-Wan’s carefulness reminded him of their first year together when Obi-Wan had been afraid (rightfully so, given Qui-Gon’s churlish behaviour) of disappointing or angering Qui-Gon, for fear of being rejected again. He hated the fact that he had ever made Obi-Wan sad or afraid, and he hated the fact that he could still do that now. He didn’t mean to be ill-tempered, but he was dreading the impending visit with Dooku. And, as much as he knew that it was not Obi-Wan’s fault, he found he couldn’t help but be frustrated that his padawan had not refused Dooku’s invitation outright. He supposed he could hardly expect Obi-Wan to see through Dooku’s shiny exterior on a first meeting. It’s not like he had prepared his padawan, and there were still plenty of masters and knights who doubted Dooku’s callousness and self-interest.

Most of all, he hated that Dooku could shake him like this. After their lamentable encounter in the training halls, he found himself worried about whether he indulged Obi-Wan, whether he distracted him from his studies, whether he’d been right to keep Obi-Wan away from Dooku. He had picked up on Obi-Wan’s surprise and irritation, and underneath that a layer of hurt about being, if not lied to, then hidden from. They had worked so hard to build trust between them and he never wanted to jeopardize that. Still, Dooku was a menace and he had no desire to have him sink his insidious claws into Obi-Wan. It was bad enough he’d had to live through the man’s constant displeasure, his mocking tone, his harsh words, his double meanings. Obi-Wan would encounter men like Dooku—he already had—but from a safer distance of duty and formal responsibility, and, of course, parsecs.

The door chime roused him from his musings over cooled tea and a datapad that had long since time out from his inattention. One of the perks of being back at the Temple for weeks on end was regular laundry, dropped off at their door by dependable droids. He motioned for the door to open and rose from the kitchen table to accept a basket of neatly folded tunics, leggings, tabards and the like.

Obi-Wan, responsible as ever, had emerged from his rooms upon hearing the chime. He picked up the second basket and from the droid and narrowed his eyes at the pile in Qui-Gon’s hands. 

“Master, is that a high collar tunic?” 

“Yes, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon answered, as he placed the basket on the table and began to sort through it. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear a high collar tunic before,” Obi-Wan replied, joining him at the table and peering into the basket.

 _That’s because I hate them. They itch and my beard catches on the collars. They look somber and dour and…_ “I wear them… sometimes,” he said aloud.

“Is this because of Master Dooku?” Obi-Wan asked tentatively.

His padawan was too observant for his own good—or at least his master’s good. “What makes you say that, padawan?” Qui-Gon deflected.

“No reason. Just curious.” Obi-Wan shrugged. “He wears high collar tunics.”

Qui-Gon just “hmmmed” as he rifled through the pile of laundry and pulled out another, smaller high-necked tunic and passed it to Obi-Wan.

“Wait, what?” the young man said, blinking.

“This one is for you.”

“But?”

“It’s a formal occasion. It won’t _do_ for us to show up like we just got back from Dagobah on public transport, now will it?” Qui-Gon said sourly.

Obi-Wan raised his eyebrows, as if to say _you’re the one lecturing me on personal hygiene?_ Qui-Gon could sense a quip on the tip of Obi-Wan’s tongue, and he felt a stab of self-directed disappointment that his apprentice felt he had to silence himself. He dipped his head and gave Obi-Wan a weak half-smile.

Obi-Wan acquiesced with the beginnings of a grin. “Last time I checked, _my_ tunics were still white.”

 _Much better._ “Padawan tunics are lighter coloured,” Qui-Gon countered, feigning indignation.

“Uh huh.” Obi-Wan smiled. “You know,” he began, collecting his tunics from Qui-Gon’s basket, “that line worked on me for the first year of my apprenticeship.”

Qui-Gon chuckled under his breath. “Did it?” he asked, handing Obi-Wan a pile of leggings and accepting a set of tunics.

“Yes. I finally asked the quartermaster and he looked at me as if I’d grown a second head.” 

“I never knew you actually believed me,” Qui-Gon said, fondness welling up in his chest.

Obi-Wan smiled again. “I think it took me a while to catch on to your sense of humour.”

“What sense of humour?” Qui-Gon replied, eyes glinting. Force bless his padawan, teasing him out of his ill humour.

“Very funny.” Obi-Wan swatted him with a sock. “Drier than a well on Jakku, my master.”

 

\---

 

Obi-Wan squared his shoulders and took a deep breath as he straightened the violet flimisplast box of pastries in his right hand. He was trying not to feel completely absurd, standing in his itchy high-collar tunic, freshly pressed tabards and polished belt outside Dooku’s apartments in the Senate district. Dooku had insisted that they not bring anything; Qui-Gon insisted that they must, but that it should be Obi-Wan to carry it. There seemed to be a new rule at every turn with Dooku—at least, according to Qui-Gon.

In preparation, Obi-Wan had read more than one cultural guide to Serenno in the Archives and could find no reference to any of the performance expectations that Qui-Gon described. There was no requirement to show up in polished boots, pristine tunics, and or for males under a certain age to be clean-shaven or have short hair. Moreover, there was no list of inappropriate topics for dinner conversation, but Qui-Gon had been very clear that under no circumstances should he mention his interest in starship mechanics or droids, the non-human rights movement, or Kel Door force using traditions. Political topics were a minefield: he was to avoid any discussion of the the recent senate membership of the Trade Federation, Banking Clan or Techno-Union, anti-royalism on Mon Cala, Toydaria, Onderron or Alderaan (or anywhere with a monarchy really), pacifism on Mandalore, and—strangely enough—wealth-redistribution policies of the mid-rim world of Kinyen. Apparently, all of these were likely to elicit Dooku’s profound displeasure, with a lecture to match. During their discussion—well, _briefing_ was the best word for it—this afternoon, Obi-Wan had had a vague memory surface of Qui-Gon stomping about the apartment last year, grumbling about a state dinner and cursing Mace Windu for confirming that Qui-Gon was in the Temple. In retrospect, he realized that ‘state dinner’ had probably been Qui-Gon’s sarcastic term for dinner with his master.

Beside him, Qui-Gon was holding his breath, arms at his side, fidgeting with the sleeves of his recently steamed robe by clenching and unclenching his hands around the hems. He was shielding heavily, as he had been for nearly two weeks at this point, ever since Dooku’s invitation has appeared in his inbox. Whatever flickers of his mood echoed through the training bond, Obi-Wan found downright _disorienting._ Qui-Gon seemed to vacillate between anger and frustration, disappointment and sadness. There were even curious hints of fear. Obi-Wan was beginning to feel guilty about subjecting his master to this dinner that he had clearly been trying to avoid, but then reminded himself that it was only _dinner_ and that Qui-Gon had lived with Dooku for a decade in his youth. Surely a few hours couldn’t be so bad. 

If Qui-Gon had just _trusted_ him enough to let him meet Dooku earlier, or even _explain_ what in the galaxy was the issue between the two of them, then maybe Obi-Wan’s guilt would have been sharper, perhaps sharp enough to rescue his master from the dreaded evening. But from his point of view, his master was being unreasonable, and maybe even a little immature. Once the observation would have shaken Obi-Wan, but now he was old enough that he’d begun to see his master’s human limitations and extend the same compassion —or at least acceptance—that Qui-Gon bestowed on him. After all, he knew that the master-apprentice relationship meant taking care of each other; that it was important for him to become confident in himself and his skills by shouldering responsibility for their shared home and life together—and sometimes that meant managing his wayward master, just as he would someday manage his own padawan. 

Perhaps the dinner would be good for his grumpy master and mysterious grandmaster: Obi-Wan’s presence would surely change the dynamic. He’d heard Bant and Quinlan and Garen speak warmly of rare-but-cherished lineage gatherings with their sibling-padawans and grandmasters. Obi-Wan wasn’t given to envy, but he was partial to hope, and so it was with hope that he rang the door chime of the imposing and undoubtedly expensive wooden door that lead to Dooku’s abode outside the Temple.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to DaringlyDomestic and Besina for reading this over and for their enthusiasm!!

To Obi-Wan’s surprise, the door did not open automatically, but manually. A woman in a sharp burgundy uniform, with her dark hair pulled back severely into a knot, opened the door and beckoned them inside. 

“Welcome to the Serenno royal apartments. Master Dooku is in the sitting room. May I take your cloaks?” she intoned smoothly.

Before Obi-Wan could protest that he could hang up his own robe, Qui-Gon replied “Thank you,” and he began to slide out of the heavy garment. He nodded to Obi-Wan. Confused, Obi-Wan removed his cloak and draped it over the woman’s arm.

As they followed the woman down several corridors to the sitting room, Obi-Wan observed that the apartment, like the foyer, was lush but not ornate. Black marble floors, deep cobalt walls and silver baseboards. Artistic and commemorative holo-images hung in burnished frames. Vases, sculptures and ornamental plants, some situated on carved side tables, embellished corners and hallways. Parts of the ceiling opened up into skylights, allowing natural light from Coruscant’s dusk to cast a purple glow over the silent corridors. Obi-Wan had seen palaces less rich - albeit in impoverished Outer Rim worlds.

“Dooku lives here?” Obi-Wan whispered in awe.

“Sometimes,” Qui-Gon replied. “He has rooms at the Temple of course, but he, like Master Mundi, has certain hereditary obligations that he has been granted permission to uphold. He spends a not insignificant amount of time here.”

“I thought Jedi weren’t allowed to own such luxuries,” Obi-Wan said.

“He doesn’t. He only has the use of them while he is in residence.”

“What’s the difference?”

“As you will observe, my padawan, very little.” Qui-Gon’s tone was neutral but Obi-Wan felt a flicker of disdain in the Force.

They turned a final corner and the corridor opened up into a large circular room with an arched skylight. On the far side, floor to ceiling windows looked out on a verdant terrace. To the left, anchoring the room, was a large stone fireplace and two deep red couches facing each other. To the right, another smaller fireplace was framed by dark wooden bookshelves and a pair of armchairs, one of which was occupied by Master Dooku, reading what looked to be an actual flimsi book. 

“Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn and Padawan-Learner Obi-Wan Kenobi have arrived, Master Dooku,” the dark haired woman announced. 

As Dooku rose from his chair, a look of displeasure crossed his features. Before greeting them, he turned to the woman and said sharply, “Onna, why is my grand-padawan holding a box of pastries, like a common porter?”

“I’m sorry, Master. I thought it was a gift. I can take it to the kitchens right away.”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to protest, but Qui-Gon stilled him with his hand on his forearm.

“See that you do,” Dooku glowered. He turned to Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan as Onna took the box from Obi-Wan. 

“Ah, my padawan and my padawan’s padawan. You have arrived, and on time too.” He gave a slow smile before bowing slightly. 

Qui-Gon returned the bow, deeper but not the full bow Obi-Wan was accustomed to seeing at Council meetings. After a split-second of indecision, he performed his usual Council bow.

“Qui-Gon, I see you refused to take my advice about your hair,” Dooku said with an arched brow. “But I see you’ve shaken out your dress tunics, so I shall be grateful for small mercies.” He smiled again. This time there was a flash of teeth.

Beside him, Obi-Wan saw Qui-Gon’s eye twitch and the vein in his temple pulse. He wondered what retort his master was holding back with his sharp inhale.

Dooku motioned for them to follow him to the plush red couches on the far side of the room.  


“Can I interest either of you in a drink? Some Corellian brandy, perhaps, Obi-Wan? It’s a rare bottle from the Agrilat region, aged in barrels of the dewdrop tree.”

“Thank you, Master. I don’t believe I’ve tried brandy before,’ Obi-Wan said, sinking onto the pillowy sofa beside Qui-Gon. 

Dooku raised his eyebrows. “Well, I suppose it is a rather cultured drink and you’ve been on few missions in the Core,” he answered, turning to a small cart of variously shaped and coloured liquor bottles and heavy crystal glasses. 

The comment struck Obi-Wan as strange, but he wasn’t entirely sure why. It was hardly unusual for masters to stay abreast of their former padawans’ careers. Still, it left Obi-Wan feeling…. watched. 

“Qui-Gon, do you still drink that dreadful Twilik herb liquor?” Dooku asked, handing Obi-Wan his glass. “The one that tastes like grass clippings and tabac?”

“Sometimes,” Qui-Gon replied stiffly. 

“Well, I’m afraid we don’t have any on hand. Perhaps you would like a Gralecan ale. I had the kitchen stock some for you.”

“Corellian brandy will be fine. Thank you.”

“Well, I shall remember not to go to the trouble next time. If there is a next time, of course.”

Qui-Gon stifled a sigh. “You know, I think I will have a Gralecan ale. Thank you, Master.”

“Excellent.” He activated his wrist comm. “Onna, bring an ale for my padawan, with a _glass._ ”

Dooku poured a glass of brandy for himself and settled into the couch across across from them. 

Obi-Wan took a sip of the brandy. It was smoother than he expected, a little spicy and a little sweet. 

“It’s very good. Thank you, Master Dooku.”

“You’re very welcome, young Obi-Wan. I’m pleased to hear your tastes are so refined.”

Obi-Wan gave a tight smile in response, unsure of what to make of the comment. He didn’t consider himself as someone with particularly refined tastes. Perhaps Dooku was merely pleased that Obi-Wan agreed with him. 

The dark-haired woman appeared with Qui-Gon’s ale in a tall, round glass on a silver tray. Qui-Gon accepted the drink with a silent nod of thanks and took a shallow sip. As far as Obi-Wan knew, Qui-Gon didn’t care for Gralecan ale. Curious that he would accept Dooku’s offer.

Obi-Wan shifted nervously. The tension between Dooku and Qui-Gon thrummed in the Force, as thick as the mist on Kestavel. The two masters stared at each other, jaws set, lines of their long limbs and broad shoulders taut. They seemed to be playing a silent game of dejarik. Dooku’s expression was deliberately mild, but the gleam of his eyes gave him away. Qui-Gon had his guarded, “every word and twitch will be read and dissected for myriad meanings by the opposing party” negotiator face on. Obi-Wan wondered if Qui-Gon had any idea how _alike_ they seemed in that moment.

“Forgive me, Master Dooku, but where are all the droids?” Obi-Wan asked, seeking to break the standstill and engage his host.

“Droids?” Dooku said, his expression shifting to benign interest.

“Yes, you seem to have human attendants. That’s rare, isn’t it?”

To his relief and not inconsiderable surprise, Dooku laughed heartily, as if Obi-Wan had just told a particularly funny joke. “My dear young Obi-Wan. You are quite droll.” He paused. “Now, tell me about your exam results. I hear congratulations are in order.”

“Thank you, Master. I passed everything and was granted honours in saber arts and diplomacy.” Obi-Wan smiled. 

“Very good, Obi-Wan. It warms my heart to see such a dedicated and mature padawan.”

Obi-Wan could have sworn Qui-Gon suppressed a wince beside him. 

“Thank you, Master.”

“Cin Drallig has told me you are quite far ahead of your agemates.”

Obi-Wan felt himself flush. He had suspected as much, but no one had confirmed it. 

“I wasn’t aware,” he said honestly.

Dooku’s eyes widened. “Is that so? But surely Qui-Gon has read Master Drallig’s reports.”

“I have,” Qui-Gon said solemnly.

“And you did not think that Obi-Wan should be made aware of his standing?”

“Rank and hierarchy are of little use on a battlefield. I passed on the relevant information.”

“I find it more rewarding to compete against myself, Master Dooku,” Obi-Wan offered. 

“A noble sentiment, my young padawan. And yet, what harm is there in being proud of one’s accomplishments?”

“Well…” He could think of a few things, like, overconfidence and complacency, but the austere look on Dooku’s face suggested that it would be wiser to simply agree. “None?”

“Exactly,” Dooku said, nodding in approval. “I fear, Qui-Gon, you are going too far in the other direction with this one. There is such a thing as too much humility.” Dooku turned to Obi-Wan. “He indulged Xanatos you see. But the boy was too old to train, already ruined by attachment. And Qui-Gon, well... He tried his best, I’m sure. But he needed a firmer hand.” He looked at Qui-Gon with regret in his eyes. “I only wish you’d come to me sooner. Perhaps we could have kept him on the path.”

Qui-Gon took in a deep breath and exhaled between gritted teeth. “What’s done is done. The present moment brings enough concerns. How are your negotiations on Yinchorr proceeding?”

“Knight Veir and I are finding the city state rulers quite intractable. They are paused for the moment.”

“Oh?” said Qui-Gon, eyebrows raised. “I had heard that they had requested another set of negotiators. Something about insufficient grasp of internal politics and… what was the word? Oh yes, empathy. I believe Master Koon has been assigned.”

Dooku’s eyes flashed. “Knight Veir struggled with understanding the primitive nature of the Yinchorri customs. I should have stepped in earlier, but it’s important to let the next generation learn through experience. Master Plo will undoubtedly have a smoother time of it.”

“Why’s that, Master?” Obi-Wan asked, confused.

“Well, as a Kel Dor, I expect he will be better able to connect to the Yinchorri than Knight Veir.”

“How so?”

Dooku chuckled. “Culturally, the divide between humans and non-humans can be at times quite impassable. You have to admit, there is a certain similarity across the human cultures of the galaxy.”

Obi-Wan narrowed his eyes. _Similarity_ sounded suspiciously like _superiority_ , but surely Dooku could not be implying what he thought he was implying. He was a Jedi. Discrimination against non-humans was….. A lot of things, and none of them very Jedi-like. He recalled Qui-Gon warning him against bringing up the non-humans’ rights movement. He had assumed that was more about avoiding politics at dinner, which seemed congruent with what he’d read about Serenno’s dining customs among the aristocracy. But was there something deeper going on? 

_For your own sake, Padawan, let it go. I will explain later_ , Qui-Gon sent through their training bond, with a certain amount of protective exasperation.

He decided he’d rather not find out. 

“I defer to your greater wisdom and experience, Master,” Obi-Wan said smoothly.

Dooku smiled at him. “A keen observation and a diplomatic answer, grand-padawan.” He nodded approvingly at Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan felt a flicker of Qui-Gon’s relief in the Force. Apparently they had both just passed some hidden test. 

The conversation flowed a bit more easily from there. They discussed Temple issues and Jedi-Senate relations, a topic upon which Qui-Gon and Dooku miraculously agreed. The palpable tension between Dooku and Qui-Gon seemed to dissipate in the wake of their common enemy, Senate intervention in Jedi affairs. Qui-Gon sipped more of his ale and seemed slightly more at ease, if still guarded. Obi-Wan found the brandy too strong for his taste, but drank half of it anyway, using the Force to filter the alcohol from his system as he’d been taught. 

Eventually the dark haired attendant arrived and announced that dinner was served. Dooku swept them across the vaulted sitting room into an elegant red wood panelled dining room that looked out over the terraced garden of manicured bushes and flowering trees. Several of the windows were open, allowing a cool, faintly-scented breeze into the room. A series of delicate glass lamps, shaped like branching trees, lit the darkening room. The long dining table was set with three places. Silver and white china gleamed against a rich dark blue tablecloth.

Dooku seated himself at the head of the table and beckoned for Obi-Wan to sit at his right. As he took his seat, Obi-Wan felt an unexpected and somewhat irrational pang of regret at being separated from Qui-Gon.  


“So, tell me, Obi-Wan,” Dooku said, as he poured Obi-Wan a glass of what looked to be Alderaanian summer wine, “does Qui-Gon still get distracted by every little bug or tree or tookacat he encounters?”  


Across the table, Qui-Gon choked into his water glass. Obi-Wan blinked, stunned. It appeared the evening was just beginning.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awkwardness continues apace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many enthusiastic cheers of thanks to Tohje for her keen insights and suggestions!

“So, tell me, Obi-Wan,” Dooku said, as he poured Obi-Wan a glass of what looked to be Alderaanian summer wine, “does Qui-Gon still get distracted by every little bug or tree or tookacat he encounters?”  


Across the table, Qui-Gon choked into his water glass. Obi-Wan blinked, stunned.

“Uh. I’m not sure what you mean, Master,” Obi-Wan answered. He wasn’t _lying_ exactly. He knew which quirk of his master’s Dooku was referring to, but he didn’t have a sense of why he was asking and something at the back of his mind was urging caution.

“Don’t you?” Dooku replied. “From what I heard, Qui-Gon’s propensity for distraction has made it into several of your meticulously detailed mission reports, Padawan.”

Why was Dooku reading their mission reports? What was going on here? “In that case, Master, it sounds like you are already well informed. I’m not sure what I could add,” Obi-Wan said, his tone forcibly cheerful. He paused to take a sip of his wine. “Is this from Aldera province, Master? It’s very good.”

Dooku’s face was impassive, but a twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested that was _not_ the answer he was expecting. Across the table, Qui-Gon was smiling at him, his eyes full of approval. _Well done, padawan_.

 _Um… Thank you?_ Obi-Wan thought back. 

“That’s a very good guess, Obi-Wan,” Dooku replied, an edge of condescension in his voice, “but no, this wine hails from the Isatabith. You can tell because of the notes of citrus and melon. The mountain air and rich soil produce a characteristic bouquet.”

“How interesting,” Obi-Wan lied. He saw Qui-Gon hide a smile behind his hand.

At that moment, Onna arrived carrying a tray of salads. Obi-Wan couldn’t help but notice that her hands trembled slightly as she placed Dooku’s plate down without a sound. 

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan said softly, looking her in the eyes and smiling gently. She blinked, nodded and then hurried from the room.

Obi-Wan could feel Dooku’s eyes on him as he looked down at his dish. Perhaps Dooku did not approve of speaking with attendants? He decided to buy some time by inspecting the elaborate salad in front of him. Greens from Arbra, Takhal nuts and a rare Crucival thorn pear. Expensive. He could feel Qui-Gon’s disapproval faintly through their training bond.

Dooku began describing the harvesting process of the thorn pears and Obi-Wan looked up and nodded politely. A faint sigh from across the table told him that Qui-Gon had heard this speech before, and so he pulled on his diplomatic mask and proceeded to feign interest in Dooku’s erudition. 

They got through the salad course without any new conversational hurdles. Pears lead to flowers, a discussion of the gardens, recent trends in the trade in luxury plants among the upper echelons of Coruscanti society. It was _boring_ conversation, but inoffensive and Obi-Wan decided he didn't mind having the opportunity to practice attuning to social conventions. Qui-Gon said very little, preferring to let Obi-Wan attend to Dooku's interests. Obi-Wan found it both strange and concerning that Qui-Gon's guard never faltered. He’d felt Qui-Gon more relaxed around a campfire with bounty hunters and pirates than he was around his own master. 

_Pirates, Obi-Wan, have clear motivations_ , Qui-Gon sent with the smallest quirk of an eyebrow. 

Blast, he must have been thinking too loudly.

Dooku, ever perceptive, didn’t let the silent conversation go unremarked upon.

“Padawan, I distinctly remember teaching you that it’s _rude_ to use mental communication in mixed company.”

Even though it was clear that Dooku was addressing Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan felt himself start. “My apologies, Master Dooku. I—”

“Except when the mission demands it, my master,” Qui-Gon interrupted, expression deliberately mild, but the flash of his eyes dared Dooku to contradict him. 

Dooku narrowed his eyes at Qui-Gon. The air tensed and Obi-Wan found himself bracing, as if awaiting an attack. For a moment, it looked as if Dooku would scold Qui-Gon, but after exhaling sharply through his nose, he blinked and turned a seemingly benevolent gaze towards Obi-Wan.

“Not at all, Padawan Kenobi, the fault obviously lies with your master. But since you are a guest at my table and my grand-padawan, I must insist you learn this lesson. This gap in your education will not _do_ ,” Dooku said with a “tsk” and shake of his head. 

Heat rose in Obi-Wan’s cheeks. Despite his grandmaster’s words, he found himself feeling unaccountably small. He sank lower in his chair and weathered a ripple of shame.

When he looked up, Qui-Gon’s eyes were dark and his jaw clenched. 

“Well, Master,” Qui-Gon said with an unfamiliar air of affected polity, “I have to say I’m quite impressed by your knowledge of horticulture. I could have sworn that you had no interest in plants.”

“I don't know where you got that idea, Qui-Gon," Dooku said, waving his hand. " I have always had an interest in green and growing things. But there is a difference between vegetation and _flora_.”

“I see. And here I was thinking how nice it was for you to have the _time_ to pursue your _hobbies_ since you’ve been relieved of your duties on Yinchorr and Temple-bound.”

At first, Dooku gave no indication that he’d heard Qui-Gon. He looked out towards the gardens as he finished chewing, then leaned back in his chair and placed his cutlery neatly at an angle on his plate. He took his time wiping his mouth on the finely woven indigo napkin and then placed it too on the plate. He sighed and brushed invisible lint from his left shoulder, turning to meet Obi-Wan’s eyes as he did so. “ _I_ always make time for matters of _importance_ ,” he said finally, before turning to face Qui-Gon. “You are quite mistaken in your assumptions, Qui-Gon. My appointment to the _Senate_ keeps me far busier than Yinchorr. Senators are a discerning group, with lofty expectations.” 

“Of course,” Qui-Gon said, pushing his plate forward slightly as he sat back in his seat. His chin came up as he squared his shoulders, and the glint in his eyes could have been a glare. “And I’m sure you have no trouble keeping up with their tastes, _master_.” There was no mistaking the sneer in Qui-Gon’s voice. The smooth skin of the untouched thorn pear on Qui-Gon’s plate gleamed in the lamplight, as if punctuating his damning sentence.

Obi-Wan observed the interchange with growing concern, both for his master and the rather uncivilized direction the evening seemed to be headed. What was Qui-Gon doing? It was jarring to watch his even-tempered, genuine teacher play this strange game of underhanded, subtle provocation. He had seen Qui-Gon dissemble, of course, but only when the truth or the full story could escalate a conflict or put people in danger—or when the Council Didn't Need to Know. Instead he was watching Qui-Gon use his diplomatic skills to the opposite effect—to attack instead of protect, to put down instead of to build up, to be...well... _mean_... under the guise of flattery. 

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding when Onna reappeared with the next course and interrupted the verbal sparring match. A tense silence descended as she switched out the plates, replaced linens, refilled wine glasses and adjusted cutlery. He stared down at his meal and was about to take a bite of what promised to be a fairly memorable nerf steak when Dooku addressed him. 

“Grand-padawan, did Qui-Gon ever tell you about the collection of Kuan violets he grew from seeds collected from the Room of a Thousand Fountains?”

“No, master,” Obi-Wan answered, with some relief. Plants might be boring, but at least they were safe. Dooku and Qui-Gon could hardly come to blows about _flowers_. “I don’t think so.” 

“Qui-Gon must have been 11 or 12 at the time. He was so _attached_ to their fuzzy little stems and tiny pink flowers. It’s a shame they contracted a case of the cerulean slime mould. Such a shame. I had to throw them out you see." 

“All of them?” Obi-Wan asked, surprised. That seemed a little extreme. Even more puzzling was the fact that while Dooku's words and tone sounded apologetic, there seemed to be a hint of delight in his Force signature.

Across the table, he noted that Qui-Gon had gone very still, except for the twitch of his left cheek.

“Yes. And Qui-Gon was sad for _weeks_. I told Master Yoda, I’d never heard of a padawan crying about plants, but he is such a _sensitive_ one, Qui-Gon. ” 

Obi-Wan felt Qui-Gon's regret and suspicion thread together with anger across their training bond, but when he spoke, his tone was utterly flat.

“I never saw the mold. I came back after saber practice one day to find the entire terrarium cleared out.” 

“I didn’t have a choice,” Dooku continued, shaking his head. “The mold can be quite toxic. What could I do?” He turned to face Obi-Wan and patted his forearm with long, pale fingers. “Qui-Gon thinks I didn’t understand why he was upset, but I do: to take something from seedling to leaf and then have it wither like that, so unexpectedly. How disappointing.”

Obi-Wan watched his mentor’s posture stiffen and his eyes harden. 

Dooku glanced at Qui-Gon and smiled. “Still, you learned your lesson about attachment, didn’t you?” He paused and let out an exasperated huff, tilting his head ever so slightly in Obi-Wan’s direction. “Well, for a time at least.”

Qui-Gon’s nostrils flared, but he said nothing. 

Silence fell as Dooku turned his attention to his food. The twilight outside had darkened to dusk, casting a greyish pallor over the room. For a moment, Obi-Wan watched Qui-Gon stare at his plate. The lamplight cast harsh shadows across both men’s faces, their angular, sharp features made more so by their dour expressions. For the second time that evening, Obi-Wan was struck by the eerie resemblance between the two men. 

Dooku’s voice shattered his contemplative concentration. “Obi-Wan, tell me, how is your steak?”

“Uh, it’s very good, Master. Very tender.” Obi-Wan gave a forced smile, grateful for the change in topic, however abrupt. He finally placed the piece that had been idling on his fork for several minutes in his mouth. He hoped Dooku hadn’t noticed he’d answered before he had actually tasted it. 

“Excellent. As it should be. You know what they say, the younger the nerf…”

Obi-Wan blinked and hid a wince as he swallowed. He found himself wishing he had not read that anti-mass-farming pamphlet the protesters outside the senate had handed him last week. “How… young?”

“Young enough.” Dooku smiled again. “Now, tell me about your early padawan years. I’ve missed out on so many milestones. Your first duelling competition. The construction of your first lightsaber. I hear that you had quite the impressive trip to Ilum.”

Obi-Wan found himself wondering if the sudden chill in the air had little to do with his memory of the famed ice caves.


End file.
